AH, let me sing, or all the chords, ere long,That hold the heart-reef round the tide of song,Will break with the insurgent waves that rollSo wildly 'gainst it,—and the struggling soulBe swept by surging, unsung music down,And left in its own element to drown.
Ab, let me sing, though dark and heavy cloudsOf sorrow now our beauteous country shroud;Though war devastates, and on every breathOf heaven's breeze is borne a wail of death;Though widows' sighs and orphans' cries are heard,Till every pulse within the soul is stirred,And swelling tides of kindred sorrows startWithin the throbbing cells of every heart.
Still let me sing! Those saddening themes inspireMy pensive soul, and from my trembling lyreShall fall the stricken notes in sorrowing strains,Like those from David's harp on Chaldea's plains,—Where, by a tyrant's power, was led the bandOf weeping captives out of Judea's land.Yes, let me sing! 'twill calm the heart's deep throes,And lull the spirit into sweet repose.
